Ella smiled as our horses rose and sank to the music. The merry-go-round sped up and she hugged the pole tighter, laughing. I started laughing too, but for different reasons. I had asked for the perfect Father’s Day gift.

“What do you want for Father’s Day?” my wife, Shelley, had asked three days before.

The question caught me off guard. I hadn’t even known Father’s Day was imminent. Nothing on the traditional daddy gift list got my blood moving. I only wear ties two or three times a year. All my socks were in good condition. I don’t golf anymore and, thus, have no need for balls. My caffeine fix comes in a 16 oz can of sugar-free Red Bull instead of ceramic cups emblazoned with adorable bon mots. I considered asking for an iPhone before remembering that requests for nonessential tech gifts only played on Christmas.

“I don’t know what I want,” I said at last.

“Really? There’s not anything?”

I looked out the window and saw my children pouring buckets of water onto the chalk-drawings they’d just created on the patio. They argued about whose turn it was to use the bucket as pastel gook covered their bare feet. The scene would devolve into angry cacophony within second unless Shelley or I intervened.

I smiled. “I know exactly what I want,” I said.

I asked for a few hours alone with each of our four children. We have three-year-old quadruplets (all natural, if you’re wondering), and I didn’t know what it was like to spend extended quality time alone with each of them. The best I’d managed so far was a trip to the store or a few minutes reading a book. With four toddlers under the same roof, it’s never long before somebody else needs your attention.

That Saturday morning, Ella was dressed and ready to go before I finished breakfast. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one excited about this. I put her in the car along with the requisite wipes, snacks, liquids, and stuffed animals. On the drive to L.A.’s Griffith Park, we discussed our favorite color, food, song, and animal.

“There’s the zoo!” Ella exclaimed as we passed a familiar stomping ground. “But we’re not going there today,” she said with authority. “We’re going to the merry-go-round.”

When we reached our destination, I unbuckled Ella and we walked toward the merry-go-round hand-in-hand. That’s when the feeling hit me. I noticed it immediately because it was so unfamiliar.

I’m relaxed, I thought. I’m not scanning the area for possible dangers. I’m not making sure I can count four children every thirty seconds. This is so … easy.

I started chuckling. Ella gave me a puzzled smile.

Is this what I think it is? Am I a good father, after all?

Ever since my kids had been born, I felt overwhelmed and incompetent, especially next to my wife who seemed born to raise four children at the same time. I have Attention Deficit Disorder, pretty much the opposite of what you want in a father of multiples. I’d managed to compensate for it with other strengths in almost every area of my life—except for parenting. My self-esteem plummeted fast after I became a father. Today was different. I thanked God for this wonderful feeling.

Then I thanked him for not letting me feel this way all the time.

Before my kids came along, I felt masterful and in control. Others looked to me for help while I rarely asked for theirs. This illusion of invincibility evaporated when my children were born. Life thrust a thousand new duties upon me for which I had little talent and no experience. My Lone Ranger days were over. I had to apologize a lot because I made so many mistakes. I had no choice but to face my flaws and look to others for guidance and support.

Traditionally, fathers teach their children about independence, resourcefulness, and strength. Mom provides nurturance while Dad prepares you for the difficulty of life, right? He’s the guy who picks you up, brushes you off, and sends you back into battle armed with fresh wisdom. Had our children been singletons, I would have been insufferable in this regard. Their father would have taught that any problem could be solved through assertiveness and fortitude. Since I have an ego the size of Canada, my children would have learned little about humility and interdependence. But because God blessed us with all of our children at once, they get to learn something else from their dad: that it’s okay to be weak sometimes.

Nothing has laid my frailty so bare as the demands of raising quadruplets. Thus, I have never had rely on God so much. What a relief that my children see that dependence on God and strong relationships sustain and enrich life. They’ll get my bluster about assertiveness and self-esteem later. I’m glad they’re learning about the blessing of weakness first.

But I still get my Father’s Day present every year. I get to be Super Dad for a weekend. Then Monday morning erupts and I become mortal again. The precious brevity Father’s Day reminds me that fatherhood is a gift, not an accomplishment. I am not strong enough to meet all my children’s needs, but maybe I’m showing them that our heavenly Father can.

***

Stephen W. Simpson is the author of Assaulted by Joy: The Redemption of a Cynic. He lives with his wife, Shelley, and their four children in Southern California. Find out more at www.assaultedbyjoy.com.